Phoenix Heart
by Infusiion
Summary: She felt it settle in her heart, the same way it settled on Malfoy's back, covering him like a cloak. Something was changing outside the walls of the school, and she was powerless.
1. Chapter 1

Inspired by "The Charge of the Light Brigade", a poem by Alfred Tennyson.

Also, I apologise if it doesn't exactly qualify as Draco/Hermione to you - personally, I prefer to write subtle. I'm always afraid I'll ruin the pairing if I try otherwise.

* * *

Sometimes, it was impossible to forget the shadows that lurked on their horizon. The War had been a part of their lives since they first stepped foot into Hogwarts, bright-eyed children untouched by fear and pride and loathing. A rolling thunder in the distance, growing larger as it draws in on them, electrifying the air with tension.

Sometimes, it was too much to handle. In her fifth year, Hermione had learned to cherish whatever scrap of peace she could find. At home in the muggle world, she would run to the park at the end of her street, and bury herself among the trees. With her blood pounding in her ears, and the scent of leaves and wet soil sticky in her lungs, she could escape. The trees would stand stoically around her, whispering their secrets in exchange for her silence. She felt safe, nestled by the hard, scratchy bark and the soft ground.

Back in the tumultuous wizarding world, it didn't take long for her to seek the blackness of the Forbidden Forest. Perhaps she was suicidal, or perhaps she was too confident in her abilities as a witch. Perhaps she was both.

She mostly clung to the edges, anyway. She ventured far enough in that she could no longer see the castle's turrets, but near enough to the outside that she could still see her hands in the dappled sunlight. The trees were different here; they hummed with the magic that seeped into every fabric of this world. She wasn't sure if she found it comforting, but if she let herself go completely, she could let it wash over her, swallow her into the energy. And for an hour or two every other day, she drowned in it.

It was a cold, golden fall afternoon in her sixth year as a student at Hogwarts. She felt quite alone; Harry was always distracted under the weight that rested on his shoulders, and Ron was preoccupied with Quidditch tryouts and his newfound male ego. She found she missed their company in the castle. It was impossible to lose herself in the common room, or the Great Hall, or the library, and she hated them a little bit for leaving her with nothing to focus on but the fear that rippled through the student body like breath, and the oncoming storm that felt too much like the end of the road.

She found herself stumbling more often into the Forbidden Forest, letting her feet carry her deeper into the inky darkness. She felt she was becoming wild, allowing herself to be swept away by the currents of magic that permeated everything. Perhaps she was suicidal. Perhaps she was turning her back on her place in the fight. Perhaps she just didn't care. She wanted to just be Hermione, the witch with the bushy hair and muggle parents who got excellent grades. Not the brave, selfless fighter who formed one half of the pillar that supported Harry Potter in his battle for the freedom of humankind.

Perhaps it was her destiny. She didn't like to think about that very often; questions of destiny brought with them questions of fate, and with fate she inevitably pondered her demise. She couldn't help the thoughts of the brave, selfless fighters she'd read about in her books who sacrificed themselves for the good of the world. The idea of following Harry blindly into battle against one of the greatest (certainly the most ruthless and bloodthirsty) wizards of all time was sickening, and made her legs weak. She was no hero.

She thought of a poem she had read once in her father's study:

_Boldly they rode and well, into the jaws of Death, into the mouth of Hell. _

Was she one of the six hundred, charging into her death with fear and dismay in her heart? She could become anything, anyone, she wanted. She could travel the Muggle and wizarding worlds, she could get married, she could have children, she could write books, she could teach future generations all the knowledge and wisdom she had, she could leave her mark on the world after a long, startling, enriched, frightening, _wondrous_ life. She could do so much more than she could if she died at seventeen. She wanted to be more than a name on a marble monument, or a memory in the scarred hearts of the survivors. Perhaps she was being selfish. Perhaps she wasn't seeing the big picture. Perhaps she just wanted to live.

Without realising, her feet had taken her further into the Forest than she had ever been alone. Soul searching would mean little if a centaur's arrow ended it all right now.

She made to turn back, to trudge heavily back up to the castle and put on her brave face, but a noise to her left made her stop. Instinctively her hand plunged into her robes for her wand, and she cast a quick _silencio_ on her feet. Puzzled, she crept closer to the tiny break in the trees that had omitted what she thought to be a cry. Ignoring what Harry and Ron would say if they were here, she pressed herself to one of the wider tree trunks and carefully peeked around. Her dark eyebrows shot up in surprise.

The long, black-clad figure was folded up at the base of a huge pine tree, his thin fingers digging roughly into the cold dirt. His silver head dropped to his chest as he sobbed, his teeth clenched against the sound. Hermione's legs made to run, before he saw her watching him, but something made her stay there, still as a statue.

Something was wrong. She felt it settle in her heart, the same way it settled on Malfoy's back, covering him like a cloak. For the first time since she realised there was a war coming, she felt a real stab of fear between her ribs. Something was changing outside the walls of the school, and she was powerless. Time crashed around her like waves, surging her forward, and she could do nothing to stop it.

Malfoy wrenched his hands from the soil, and began pounding the earth around him. His right hand struck a jagged root, and Hermione saw bright red blood blossom on his skin. He didn't stop right away, didn't seem to notice, but eventually the pain must have registered, and he stopped beating the ground. He cradled his hand in his lap, and tried to breathe raggedly.

Should she go help him? She knew a few small healing charms. But then, he probably did too. And what did she expect would happen? She would sit by him and hold him in her arms, and comfort him until he came back to himself? Highly doubtful.

Before she could decide what to do, a flash of crimson above her head made her flinch and grip her wand even tighter. She straightened up and pressed herself harder against the tree, and held as still as she could. She heard a gentle thud coming from Malfoy's clearing, and she very slowly, carefully, peeked again.

Fawkes, his red and gold plumage shining like the sun, was perched next to Malfoy's lap, gazing into his face elegantly. Hermione expected the Slytherin to shoo the phoenix away, and curse him for being such a good, pure creature, but instead he lifted his head from his chest and just stared tiredly at the immortal. As she watched, Malfoy's breathing slowed, and his chest loosened to allow more air into his rigid lungs. Fawkes cooed softly, and nuzzled his magnificent head against Malfoy's injured hand.

_Of course_, Hermione thought as she watched the dark stain disappear from the boy's skin.

For what seemed like an endless stretch of time, Hermione watched as Fawkes nuzzled Malfoy, making small reassuring noises while the Slytherin stared silently into the darkness ahead of him. He grimaced, closing his eyes.

"I can't." he whispered brokenly. "I can't."

Fawkes looked up at his face sadly, dropping a solitary tear on Malfoy's dirty robes. Hermione wondered if it was meant for the boy's heart.

As she watched, the phoenix cooed once more, before lifting his great ember wings and taking flight into the golden sky. She stepped forward, gliding over the leaves on silent feet, and held out her hand, her fingers gently beckoning. Her pale skin glowed in the nearing darkness, and Malfoy grabbed her hand wordlessly, hauling himself to his feet. With heavy hearts they walked silently back to the castle.

_Theirs not to make reply,_

_Theirs not to reason why,_

_Theirs but to do and die._


	2. Chapter 2

Whaddya know, it's not a one-shot anymore! Title may change... when I figure out exactly what's going to happen. I'm sort of writing, and then figuring the plot as I go.

* * *

Hermione felt the familiar cadence of routine, but did her best to ignore it. Even if it was terribly comforting. It wasn't as though what she was doing was bad, definitely not; it was who she was doing it with.

Draco Malfoy. A name that, even when considered purely in the letters' aesthetics when written on paper, just screamed evil. Heartless, rude, cold, cruel, prejudiced, she could go on and on. Hermione figured it had something to do with the sharp angles on the _D_, and the spikes on the_ M,_ and the stabby tail on the _y_. Or maybe that was just how she wrote it.

Blinking once or twice, Hermione noticed she was writing his name on the pre-draft of her Potions essay, trying different styles to see which fit the boy she had come to know, albeit silently, over the past few weeks.

_How the hell did that happen?_ She wondered, scrubbing out the letters furiously.

He smelled of winter as she remembered it at home: of snap-frozen grass, and the musty breathe of the earth that clung to her nostrils whenever her boots crunched on dead leaves.

He was as cold as winter, too. Not the steely hatred he used to direct at her, but just a state of frozenness that had nothing and everything to do with the atmosphere. Since the afternoon she had first seen him in the Forest, Hermione had progressed from watching him to folding herself beside him on the wet ground. She always knew he was aware of her presence, and his lack of action gave her confidence.

They never spoke. They simply sat, Hermione drowning in an ocean of ignorance, looking everywhere but the path ahead; Malfoy just breathing. Hermione pretended not to notice the tremors that sometimes radiated from his chest out through his shoulders. Just as he pretended not to notice she was there.

Fawkes never returned. One of the things Hermione thought about when she was carefully not thinking was the phoenix's appearance that day. It made no sense to her, but then neither did the behaviour of her once-nemesis.

_Once-nemesis_. She wasn't sure when she decided they were no longer enemies, only that she did. Something had changed - it was almost tangible. They had reached an unspoken agreement the day she offered him her hand; there were things bigger and deadlier than their teenage rivalry. And each day they were drawing closer. Decisions had to be made, consequences lurked behind them, and Hermione spent her time trying not to choke on it.

The days were getting shorter, colder. She stopped lying to her friends; it was a testament to her defiance that they remained behind and allowed her to venture into the Forest alone. Perhaps it was because she was the smartest, most powerful witch in her year. Perhaps it was the darkness under her eyes, and the way her fingers clenched and unclenched until pink crescents blossomed on her palms. Harry was far from stupid, and Ron was increasingly interested in looking at her. They noticed how different she seemed when she returned from her little walks. Tired, yes, but slack, like all the tension was drained from her muscles and her mind. They discussed it quietly amongst themselves, but they never used relaxed as an adjective for her returning state. Whatever had left her body was still present in her wide, shadow-rimmed eyes.

Eyes that Hermione, on this deep orange evening, found were fluttering closed without her realising. Why was she so tired? Her studies, both necessary and otherwise, kept her up late, but no later than she usually stayed up on school nights.

She was indeed very comfortable here. It was easy to pretend nothing was wrong when she was curled against a hard, musty tree trunk on soil that warmed under her. The Forest's magic vibrated through her, lulling her like an infant, until her heavy lids slipped closed.

_She was running, fleeing from the blackness that swelled and crackled with green fire, reaching its tendrils out to claim them one by one. She thought of hurricanes, and the people who tried to outrun them, tried to predict their moves and fooled themselves into believing they were faster. What chased them felt the same; a terrible force of nature that couldn't be stopped. Voldemort's voice rode on the wind that whipped her hair into her eyes, blinding her. She tried to rip it away from her face, stumbled and fell on the cold ground. The blackness drew nearer, the hissing grew triumphant. Her fate._

_Suddenly a strong hand grabbed hers, and pulled her to her feet. Harry! He was alive! She finally pulled the hair from her face, to smile up at him as they began running._

_Silver hair and storm cloud eyes replaced tousled black locks and piercing green. Hermione's eyes grew wide, and she tried to pull her hand from his._

"_But you're my enemy!" She screamed._

_His voice was calm. "I'm all you have now."_

Hermione's lids snapped open to the Forest, and the nighttime that had almost completely blanketed them.

"Lumos" she heard to her right. Soft green light invaded her vision, reflected in the platinum irises that searched her face intently behind the wand. He usually left well before darkness fell, and she usually counted thirty hippopotamuses before following him to the castle.

"You fell asleep. We should go, it's getting late." He murmured. He stood and held out his hand. She hesitated, her nightmare fresh in her mind, before inwardly scolding her silliness and taking his hand. He pulled her to her feet a little easier than she would have expected, given his slight frame, and held her as she wobbled.

I don't know why I'm so exhausted." _I don't know why I'm telling you, either._

"Everything comes at a price." He answered coolly.

Looking around at the trees (invisible if not for lumos), and feeling the magic that crashed around now that the sun was gone, Hermione shuddered. She noticed her hand was still in Malfoy's, and looked down at it in surprise.

As if he just realized what he was doing, Malfoy dropped her like she was poison, and briskly began walking back through the trees toward the castle. It took only two hippopotamuses for Hermione to realize she didn't want to be alone, and she sprinted after him, glancing back every so often at the blackness.


	3. Chapter 3

There were cracks in the ice now; crisscrossed in a delicate pattern that felt almost threatening.

He broke the code of silence the day she fell asleep beside him. And Hermione found she was perfectly content to leave it undone.

Mostly, she asked him questions. It made the most sense to them both. She was a know-it-all who always had the answers (specialising in the questions no one asked), and he was a closed book of complexity, who was loath to reveal himself even to his closest goons. Wasn't that why they were here? Trying to be anyone but themselves?

In her defence, she tried to keep her interrogating as impersonal as possible, while keeping it interesting enough. But sometimes even trivial things would cause him to harden, and his eyes to turn to steel. His favourite things to do on the holidays, his best childhood memory, what he wanted to do after graduation (_if we're still alive_).

Perhaps he wanted anything but to be reminded who he was. Perhaps he yearned to remember, to anchor himself to better times. She recognised the battle.

On the first true day of winter she plucked up the courage to ask the one question that had plagued her since their dance began.

xxx

Murky, young snow was strewn haphazardly across the Forest floor and melting into their robes as they sat side by side, carefully not touching, with their knees pressed against their chests.

"Why… do you come here?" _With me?_

When he remained silent she hastened to continue. "I mean, why don't you fly somewhere, or visit the Room of Requirement?"

He flinched when she mentioned the enchanted chamber of the castle. She might not have noticed, staring resolutely at the ground as she was, if his elbow hadn't knocked hers.

"Why do _you _come here?" He finally answered in his careful tone. She caught herself hoping his (deflection) question held the same implications to him that hers did.

Now it was her turn to answer. They were deviating from the protocol of their arrangement, but that was alright. She could adapt. She sifted through some retorts (_Didn't you know?_ _I feel at home in the mud._) before settling on the truth. She expected the same courtesy.

"There's something comforting in the energy of the Forest. I don't have to think about…" _The war, my possible death, my shameful, life-saving urge to run, run, run, and never look back …"_what everyone else is thinking about."

He nodded. "I feel it too."

Hermione let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. What had she expected, really? Him to scrunch up his nose and say, 'geez woman, I just like the scenery'? Just because Harry and Ron had looked at her like she was a little bit bonkers for choosing to relax in a cold, dark, lethal place rather than in the library or the bath, didn't mean all boys were oblivious.

He was speaking again. "It makes it easier to forget what you should be, what everyone wants you to be, and try to remember who you were. Who you wish you could be. Helps you forget that wishing for such things is pointless and utterly futile."

He looked at her then, for the first time since lumos. His bottomless silver eyes locked onto hers, telling her something crucial, something devastating, something he would never tell anyone whose eyes were void of the same crippling awareness that haunted her every thought.

Hermione's heart pounded. There were snowflakes dusting his hair, caressing the lines of his face, melting on his lips. His eyes were shadowed with the ghosts of a man who was forced to a fate not his own. He was a prisoner awaiting the Kiss; that soul-stealing moment in which he would become a shell of who he was, and who he could have been. He was trapped. He was falling. He was beautiful.

xxx

She started to watch him. A breakfast, during classes, at dinner. What did he do? Where did he go? What was he thinking? These were some of the questions she challenged herself with. It was probably a stupid way to pass the time. It was _definitely_ stupid to harbour the tiny spark of hope that Malfoy was anything other than a shallow, contemptuous excuse for a human being. But she did it anyway. In the very least, they were sharing some common ground (pun not intended). And no matter the reason, subtly stalking Malfoy over her pudding and pumpkin juice every night was infinitely better than trying to decide what the hell she was going to do when life stopped being so simple.

Hermione liked to think of herself as an observant person, but after three days of watching him, she still had no answers. He seemed quieter, less demanding of his friends, less like the centre of attention and more like he was flying below the radar. It reminded her of what Harry said about experiencing someone else's memories. You see what they see, hear what they hear, but you slip through their world like smoke, unnoticed.

At his usual position at the Slytherin table, he ate in silence, and those who glanced his way soon averted their eyes, like they neither cared what he was thinking, nor felt like getting hexed for asking. In class he stared over the teacher's shoulder, or bent his head over his work and wrote like a NEWT student, his quill barely interrupted for ink. Hermione had the impression that, had she not been watching, not a single soul would be able to answer immediately if someone happened to ask "where's Draco Malfoy these days?"

She mentioned it fleetingly (and exceptionally, like she hadn't been planning it all morning) to Harry during Potions. The Boy Who Lived blinked and slid his glasses back up his nose before squinting at his textbook again.

"I suppose the git has realised that he's pathetic and is pondering how to end it all without messing up his hair." He shrugged.

Hermione scowled at him, flicking a lacewing fly at his head. "There's no need to be like that, Harry. He hasn't even bothered you this year. Do you think he's… becoming a decent person? There's only so long you can be a jerk for no good reason."

Harry, remembering a rather painful arrival on the Hogwarts Express this year, glanced up at her from his cauldron.

"I doubt it."

xxx

In the Forest, Hermione fidgeted with the hem of her robes. There was a rather impressive magical fire burning in front of her, warming her thoroughly without soaking her in melted snow, and there was a handful of chocolate frogs weighing down her pocket. And she was alone.

Did he see her watching him? Did he hear her conversation with Harry? She was sure he'd left the dungeon momentarily when she spoke up, but she could have been wrong.

Something akin to panic bubbled in her chest. The wind howled through the trees, scattering sharp ice crystals at her face and in her hair. It seemed so long ago that she used to come here alone. Now she was lonely. Without his body beside her, she no longer felt relaxed. The Forest's magic assaulted her senses, uninterrupted by his breathing, and his occasional movements.

After an hour of waiting it was growing dark, and Hermione felt resigned. She slowly stood, feeling her stiff joints creak, and silently extinguished her fire. She couldn't quite shake the feeling that she had done something wrong. But even more persistent was the fear that she had lost him, lost the precious hours they spent together, two very different people sharing their despair.

xxx

_Her hand was in his, dwarfed by his long fingers. He stroked her soft skin with his thumb, and whispered in her ear._

"_I love you, Hermione. You're just like me." She smiled up at him, giddy with happiness. He grinned back, and leaned in to keep whispering._

"_You're afraid to do what other people want, because they want you to be someone you're not. They want you to be honourable, and brave, and to fight for their beliefs. But you're going to abandon them."_

_Amidst the warm fuzziness that was enveloping her brain, Hermione felt a small pang of alarm. What was he saying? Why was his voice cold like that? He was her Draco. He was a good person. He had finally realised there's no point being a jerk for no reason. _

"_I know you, Hermione. We're so alike, don't you see? We're going to leave them behind, leave them to fall over one another and die, but we'll be happy. Together. I understand. It's okay."_

_She realised he was soothing her, rubbing her back while she cried. Her heart felt so empty._

"_But… Harry!" She choked._

"_He's dead, pet. Don't you remember? You left him to die. But it's okay, because you have me. We're the same, you and I."_

_But she couldn't stop crying. Things were spinning so fast, making her head swim. His cold voice rushed about her head, faster and faster, until it was naught but a hiss._

With a stifled scream, Hermione bolted upright in her bed. It was after midnight, and there was a storm brewing outside her tower window. She shook herself a few times, and took several deep breaths. But she couldn't still her frantic heart, and she could do nothing to quell the sickness that churned in the pit of her stomach.

"Merlin's beard." She whispered to the darkness. Tears filled her eyes as she lay back down, and she sobbed into her pillow until sleep eventually came for her again. For the first time since that fall, she felt strangled. She thought she was finding answers, but she was simply delaying the questions. And she knew, with a twist of fear and loathing, that she would give anything to make them disappear altogether.


	4. Chapter 4

A bit of a longer chapter this time. Not the best chapter, but a necessary one. I promise the next ones will be better - I have a clear idea of what will happen later, I just needed to force out the stuff that happens in between.

Oh, and I feel I should mention - it's been a long time since I read the Half Blood Prince (thus I can't even remember how accurate the movie is), so this timeline is loosely based on the movie. But for the sake of the fic, Harry hasn't yet revealed the name on his potions book, or some of the dodgy things written inside it. That would provide Hermione with the distraction she needs, and then where would Draco be?

* * *

The storm that raged through the early hours of that morning had almost exhausted itself when Hermione crawled out from under her covers. She flew on autopilot for a little while, gathering her robes and her socks, brushing her cold fingers through her tangled curls. It wasn't until Lavender Brown caught her hunting for her Transfiguration book that she realised it was Saturday.

"Don't be ridiculous Hermione, it's the weekend! A Hogsmeade weekend, if this blizzard backs off." The blonde giggled, enjoying it a bit too much for Hermione's liking. So she lost track of the days of the week sometimes. Hermione had the urge to smile sweetly and inform Lavender that it was one of the things Ron _loved_ about her (she wasn't blind to everything that went on in her classmates' lives, after all), but bit back her tongue. She wasn't sure she was ready to start a rumour. She wasn't even sure that, should a rumour about her and Ron start flying, she would ever consider it seriously (despite the looks he sometimes threw at her when she wasn't supposed to see). Not during school, anyway. Love didn't figure highly on her list of priorities.

Despite her chromosomes and her emotional insightfulness, Hermione had never been overly romantic. She was too pragmatic to believe in the notion that there was only one person meant for her in the entire world, or that she could fall in love with someone the first time they meet. She believed lust and attraction were powerful chemical reactions in the brain that may lead someone to believe themselves in love with another. It's what you feel after the initial excitement of pheromone-induced affection wears off that really counts.

She knew the other girls considered her a prude, and a bore, for her clinical approach to such matters. They smiled at her knowingly (infuriatingly) and dismissed her claims, foreseeing a dark, handsome man in her future that would change her mind about everything and hump her spectacularly, until all her silly scientific facts were mush in her sex-addled brain and she declared herself in love. Hermione would scowl and her cheeks would turn pink, which the others only took as encouragement. Nothing they said was true, of course. Who ever said she had a taste for the dark foreign types? Plus, her scientific facts (courtesy of having two parents in the medical field) would _never_ become unimportant to her.

Also, she wasn't a prude. She appreciated the mechanics of sex. She knew all about the firing of neurones, the hormonal processes, and the chemical reactions that resulted in the feelings of physical pleasure one feels during intercourse. She didn't advertise it, but she was rather looking forward to that step in her life. Life was about learning, and if she made it through school and the War alive, she was going to find herself a nice, slightly older, experienced gentleman to show her the ropes of carnal pleasure.

If she made it through alive. She felt the familiar tightening in her chest at the thought of battlefields; both real and metaphoric. Each day she saw Harry he looked older, more distracted. His meetings with Dumbledore were happening more and more often, and Hermione just wanted to scream and shout and wrestle him away from the Headmaster's office. They weren't supposed to be making headway into killing Voldemort. They were supposed to be studying, and preparing for their NEWTS, and discussing future career paths. Each time she watched Harry leave for Dumbledore's tower time moved a little faster, a little closer to the future she might never have.

But instead of screaming and shouting and fighting, she helped him. She put on her brave face and hugged him, and pretended he was the only one feeling afraid. It only served to further her despair, further her shame. Harry was only sixteen, like her, and he too deserved a proper life. The only difference was Harry couldn't run like she could. Harry couldn't disappear into the Muggle world to wait out the storm, and emerge in a year or two to assess the damage and beg for forgiveness from his surviving friends, while trying not to be glad he didn't share their scars.

There were times she considered talking to Ron about it. But as much as she cared for him, she knew he would be a hopeless candidate. Ron was nothing if he wasn't selflessly loyal. He would follow Harry, support him fiercely and without second thought, even take an _Avada_ for him. Because it was the right thing to do. Hermione admired that about him, and hated him for it. Brilliant as she was, Hermione was finding it more and more difficult to determine what was right, and what was wrong. To do right by Harry would be to stand at his side until she was blown to pieces or the war was won. To do right by the deepest recesses of her heart was something else entirely.

A hammering on her dormitory door woke Hermione from her reverie. Ever the gentlemen, Harry and Ron were on the other side, yelling at her to hurry up and put her clothes on so they could visit Hogsmeade before the next blizzard came along. Sighing, and with the smallest of smiles, she pulled on her boots. She was determined to spend one day with her boys in the present, enjoying what she has now rather than panicking about all she has to lose later.

xxx

And enjoy herself she did, until things began to unravel around her. If she had've know when Katie hit the ground that her life would begin to change, it's possible she would have fled the wizarding world then and there.

But the gift of foresight is something Hermione always scoffed at, so when it became apparent their friend was being beseeched by some form of powerful dark magic, she could only run ahead and watch in horror. She was flicking through possible helpful spells in her head when Hagrid came forward and gathered Katie's limp body into his arms, demanding Hermione and the boys wrap up the cursed artefact and follow him to the castle. As they walked, shocked into silence, part of the necklace slipped free of its packaging, quivering with Ron's steps. Hermione watched as it glinted, the beautiful jewels revealing nothing of the deadly magic that sprang forth to claim the souls of whoever brushed the crystalline surfaces with their bare fingers.

"Who would do that to Katie?" She whispered when they were in McGonagall's office, her eyes having remained fixed on the beautiful chain the whole way.

"I think she was just the messenger." Harry muttered back. Sure enough he was right. Katie's terrified friend had been there when she became determined to present Dumbledore with the lethal gift. Hermione knew from the set of Harry's shoulders, and the thin line of his mouth, that he was a step ahead of them already. She suspected he somehow had an idea of what was going on, as he often did before she and Ron could catch up.

"It was Malfoy. Malfoy cursed her. _He_ wanted Dumbledore to touch the necklace."

Well, she hadn't expected that. Her mouth fell open as she looked at Harry, wondering how far he was going to take their childhood rivalry.

"I saw him in Rosmerta's, he-" Harry continued stubbornly, before Snape cut him off.

"What a serious accusation, Potter. I trust you've got proof of Mr. Malfoy's guilt?" The professor taunted in his slimy voice. Harry's mouth closed, but his jaw was set. He remained silent until they were dismissed from the room, but Hermione knew his mind hadn't changed. As soon as they were alone she grabbed his elbow, forcing him to stop and look at her.

"What was that about, Harry? You really think Malfoy is devising murderous plots now?" She found she was furious with him, furious that he would turn something so serious into an excuse to get Malfoy into trouble.

"I told you Hermione, I don't think he's changed one bit. I'm telling you, he's one of _them_." Harry practically spat the last word, his emerald eyes like thunder. Hermione matched his gaze, feeling fury stir hot in her stomach. She remembered the first time she saw the Slytherin in the Forest, remembered hearing his dreadful sobs. Whatever Malfoy was, he wasn't a murderer. The knowledge settled firm in her heart, and she released Harry's arm. Without another word she turned on her heel and stalked back to the Gryffindor tower.

xxx

Back in her dormitory, Hermione was restless. She glanced out her window several times, peeking down at the Forest, wondering if he was down there. Wondering if he was waiting for her. She had pulled on her thickest cloak and was refastening her boots, ready to find out, when the wind lashed her window, bringing with it a torrent of snow that blanketed the grounds. Another storm was encroaching on the castle. She dropped her cloak heavily, knowing she would be truly suicidal to venture outside this evening.

She needed to do something. She felt nervous, and she was still trembling slightly from her anger at Harry's bullheadedness. She needed a distraction, needed to gather her thoughts. Aside from her Forest, there was only one place she could think of where she could find a quiet distraction.

The library was empty, just as she'd hoped. No one else was bored or committed enough to be in the library on a Saturday evening. Rather than shake her head at the unwise choose of her classmates, Hermione sighed a breath of relief. Here she could at least find focus.

She was skimming her cold fingers over a shelf of battered history books, leaving faint patterns in the ancient dust, when she felt someone behind her. Her heart caught in her throat and she turned, ripping her wand from her robes in the same instant.

Malfoy's wand flew from its loose position in his hand and clattered on the floor on the other side of the room. An eyebrow raised in surprise, he looked from her wand, to her face, to her lips parted in a small 'o', and then back to her wand. After a long moment Hermione gasped and shoved her wand away, blushing furiously. Somewhere in her mind Mad Eye Moody was barking _constant vigilance!_ while she stammered an apology.

"S-sorry. It's a reflex."

"Non-verbal disarming spells? That's… typical, Granger." He drawled in his usual bored tone, though she thought she saw something akin to awe flicker across his eyes briefly. But that couldn't be right.

He was speaking again, his silky voice carrying easily over the silence of the library. "I was wondering if you ever visit the Astronomy tower." He said casually, his eyes wandering over the titles behind her.

She blinked. "No… not often. Not in this weather."

"In this weather I find it's the best alternative to where you usually go. If you can manage some simple heating charms." he slid to the back of the room and retrieved his wand, before meeting her eyes.

"I imagine that wouldn't be a problem for you."

And with that he was gone, leaving Hermione with her mouth slightly open. She absentmindedly picked a book up off the floor and returned it to its place, before pulling on her cloak and heading toward the castle's highest tower.

_Forget heating charms. Wait until he sees my enchanted flames, _she thought with a tiny grin.

But even as she headed discreetly up the stairs leading to the Astronomy tower, feeling a sense of freedom mere yards above her head, she couldn't shake the trepidation that lurked at the back of her mind. She knew, without a doubt, that she was opening a door she might never close. And in the end she would be hurt, one way or another.

Determined, she climbed the last steps onto the landing. If she was going to fall, she'd rather it not be alone.


End file.
